Every cop knows there are three reasons to join the force: You get to give back to the community, you become a role model for young people, and, best of all, bullets can no longer physically harm you in any way.
Sure, I’ve only had my badge for three weeks now, but to me, that’s what being a police officer is all about. Every morning when I wake up, I know I’ll be making a difference in the lives of those around me. That I’ll be helping to serve and protect those who matter most. And that, of course, gunfire has absolutely no chance of ever hurting me at all.
Really, though, being 100 percent bulletproof is such a great perk that it practically goes without saying. In fact, whenever I do mention it, the other cops just look at me like I’m crazy. It’s like they’re thinking, “Yeah, no duh, Rick. Having bullets bounce off your face is so obviously the best part of the job. Please tell us something we’re not aware of.”
I know, I know, I’m still green, but I can’t help it. I just love being bulletproof!
Part of me hopes I’ll never be like those other officers. They take being immune to firearms totally for granted. They seem pretty bitter and jaded, to tell you the truth. Take yesterday afternoon, for instance. I walked out onto the shooting range—after dropping my gun for like the 10th time—and suddenly everyone starts yelling at me.
It’s like, relax, you know? I’m only going to be blocking your targets for a few seconds. Just bounce a couple rounds off my ass if I’m in your way, don’t scream at me!
Honestly, I don’t know why they even give us weapons in the first place. I can’t speak for my colleagues, but it’s not like I’m a great shot or anything. In fact, I probably couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn if my life depended on it, which, lucky for me, it doesn’t.
It seems like I forget my gun at home half the time anyway. Even if I had it, and a suspect was shooting at me, I probably wouldn’t draw the thing. Why bother? It always gets caught in my holster, and besides, I can just walk up and grab the suspect while his bullets land harmlessly at my feet. Still, I suppose that rules are rules, and the gun is part of the uniform. It’s mostly tradition, I guess.
Like that Kevlar vest I’m supposed to wear. Where the hell that thing went, I couldn’t tell you.
Now, I know that being impervious to bullets doesn’t mean I’m invincible or anything. I found out the hard way during a routine traffic stop last week that bullet-immunity does not, for example, extend to Tasers. Yes, I know what you’re thinking, and it doesn’t make much sense to me, either. It would stand to reason that since I can take a shotgun blast to the gut (can’t wait!) and walk away without so much as a scratch, a little electricity wouldn’t be a problem, but there you go. All I can say is, if that’s the price you have to pay to be able to effortlessly deflect hollow-point shells, then so be it.
God, it’s going to be so incredibly great the first time I get shot.
I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but I’m supposed to go on a big meth lab raid tomorrow morning. According to the part of the briefing I listened to—the tone of which seemed a bit somber, if you ask me—these guys are heavily, heavily armed. So I’m almost guaranteed to be shot then. Who knows? Maybe I’ll even get it in the back of the head!
I only wish I were a sergeant so I could turn invisible, too.
